Alcoholic drinks probably aren’t the best carb-loading material. Still, I only had three beers last night, and though I felt grotty at six in the morning, I was still capable of hauling myself out of bed and running ten miles. If I can get a bit of consistency in the next month, I might not self-destruct in May’s half marathon. However, I’ve hardly been Mr Consistency for the last month; we’ll have to see if I can be more singleminded.
It’s partly a matter of doing one thing at a time, rather than being worried and distracted by one thing while trying to do something else. I spent most of those ten miles thinking about stand-up comedy, so I wasn’t doing too well.
After breakfast, I went over to a green screen studio in the amusingly-named Kallang Pudding Lane. There are no puddings to be seen over there, but the green screen studio is pretty damn green. We recorded me being angry and shouting for an hour. It’s probably quite fortunate that this was a Sunday, otherwise people in the adjacent units might have been scared by the constant yells of “You’re doing it wrong!” that were belching out.
I got a train home, intending on having an afternoon nap, but instead we ended up at the Fullerton, being served coffee by an inexperienced trainee, confused by complicated requests for things like cutlery, menus, or teacups. It often seems when we go for a coffee that the people serving us caffeinated beverages need them more than we do.
On the way home, we stopped at the Park Royal to investigate their dining options. I was disconcerted to find they have employees named QueenBee and Champagne. Could there be workers elsewhere called Wasp and Newcastle Brown Ale?
Having drunk too much strong coffee, I wasn’t ready to have my usual nap when we got home again, so I bumbled around in that unproductive mental twilight between wakefulness and unconsciousness. After a few hours of this we struggled out to the hawker market at Maxwell Road, where my brain was too dulled for me to feed myself, before going for a long wander down Club Street.
I was upset to discover that almost every restaurant on Club Street is closed on Sunday evening; the only place we found open was the Social, which we’d been to eleven hours’ earlier for breakfast. The unfortunate consequence was that I was soon drinking a good strong gin and tonic, leaving this weekend much as I’d started it, boozed up. I don’t feel I achieved quite as much as I intended to this weekend, although I have been on the sauce for three nights in a row, which surely counts for something…